The closest Linklater came to a criminal record was a few scattered parking tickets, and those had all been paid in a timely manner. So how did an ostensibly ordinary, even boring man end up tortured and burned alive?
She checked her watch; it was five thirty. The kids would need dinner. Rachel had the ingredients to make a meatloaf with a side of mashed potatoes and asparagus. Cooking for children was like unrequited young love. Hours of effort, and you were lucky if they even acknowledged your presence. But she didn’t want to be the mom who ordered pizza every time she had a long day.
Rachel took the ground beef from the fridge and stirred together eggs, ketchup, worcestershire sauce, bread crumbs, minced onion, milk, and parsley. Her ears pricked up at the sound of gunfire . . . only it wasn’t actual gunfire. Eric was in his room obliterating an army of sprites at a decibel level that could cause an avalanche.
She took a bottle of merlot from the near-barren freestanding wine rack and poured herself a generous glass. She sipped as she assembled the meal. The smell of garlic was heavenly. She broke the beef apart with a spatula, stirring to make sure it didn’t burn.
Then came a knock at the door. Her heart leaped at the prospect of John Serrano standing there with a smile and perhaps more wine. She laughed at herself. She felt like a teenager finally getting the text she’d been waiting all night for.
She turned the heat down, washed her hands, and went to the door. She was hoping to see Serrano holding a bottle of something dry.
But when she opened the door, Rachel’s mouth dropped. Every muscle in her body tensed. A wave of panic ignited her synapses, as if an electric current had traveled from toe to head and back again.
Instead of John Serrano, a woman stood on her front porch. Her hair was different from the last time Rachel had seen her. Longer. It was now a dusky auburn, shoulder length, spilling over a brown leather jacket. She was about five eight, an inch shorter than Rachel. Her muscular arms and legs filled out her clothing. Her weight was shifted slightly to the side as though she might need to suddenly defend herself.
And in that instant, Rachel was reminded that the life she thought she was done with, the life she’d left behind—that life wasn’t done with her. Not by a long shot.
The woman smiled. Big and warm.
“Hey, Blondie,” she said. “It’s been a while.”
CHAPTER 9
Rachel stood in the doorway for what felt like a year. She’d recognized the woman before she opened her mouth to speak but was still stunned when the words came out, like the syllables were proof that she wasn’t hallucinating.
The woman had aged, though Rachel could tell from her calloused hands, the triangular shape of her trapezius muscles underneath her jacket, that she was still someone you did not want to cross.
“Myra,” Rachel said. “You look good.”
“You mean Evie,” the woman said with a sly grin. “And you do, too, Blondie. Though I guess it’s Rachel Marin now, right?”
“And you’re Evie Boggs. Guess you dropped ‘Myra’?”
The last time Rachel saw Evie Boggs, she had prevented Evie from killing a man named Stanford Royce who had tried to rob them. Evie felt the man deserved to die. Rachel disagreed. It turned out Royce was a serial rapist, a career criminal. Had Rachel known that, she might have let Evie do what she wanted. Yet months later, Rachel was the one with the knife, hovering over a prone Stanford Royce.
“Not all of us need to hide from who we are,” Evie said. “Anyway, it’s been, what, five years? I’m so glad you took my advice.” Evie spoke with the charm and casualness of an old college friend at a class reunion.
“Feels a whole lot longer,” Rachel said. “Like a lifetime ago. And what do you mean, ‘your advice’?”
“Ashby? Come on, don’t pretend you don’t remember.”
Rachel did remember.
“So,” Evie said. “Are you going to invite me in?”
Rachel looked over her shoulder. The kids were both upstairs. She turned back to Evie. She carried a tiny clutch. Too small for most handguns. Her pants were tight. Cloth tapered to her ankles. No weapons Rachel could see. And if Evie really wanted Rachel dead, the best time would have been right when she opened the door.
Rachel wanted to invite Evie into her home as much as she wanted to invite a leper into her bed. But she didn’t need nosy neighbors asking about the woman standing on her front porch. Was that a Jehovah’s Witness? They do come around here quite frequently. Besides, Evie was here for a reason. People from your former life didn’t show up unannounced just for afternoon tea.
“Of course,” Rachel said, sweeter than a sugar cookie. “Where are my manners? Come in, Evie. It’s been far too long.”
“It has,” Evie said with an amused smile. Rachel led her to the living room. Evie sat on the couch, crossed her legs, relaxed. Rachel took the love seat. Feet on the floor. Anything but relaxed. Evie studied the decor. Too closely. Like she wanted Rachel to notice. It made Rachel wonder if she’d been casing her house and, if so, for how long.
“You have a lovely home, Rachel. You still go by Rachel, right?”
“Yes. But you already knew that,” she replied.
“I did.”
“So what the hell are you doing here?”
“I’ve been thinking a lot about the past,” Evie said, ignoring the question. “You know, when we first met, you couldn’t kick a can down the street. But look at you now. Taking down bad guys like you’re Dirty Harriet. My little shin kicker. All grown up.”
She knows about the Constance Wright investigation, Rachel thought.
“You haven’t answered my question,” Rachel said, impatiently.
“Aren’t you going to offer me a drink first?”
“No.”
“Well, you might be grown up, but your manners are worse than a teenage boy’s. How is your teenage boy, by the way?”
“If you came here to comment on my manners or talk about my son, you can leave, or I can make you leave.”
“Come on, you don’t want to cause such a ruckus in your own home, do you?”
Rachel said nothing.
“You’d never believe it,” Evie said, “but there was this horrible story on the news about a house that burned down in Ashby. With someone still inside. Video from the crime scene showed the cops skittering around like ants. And who do I see among all those cops? Acting like she might as well be one of the boys in blue?”
Rachel said nothing.
Evie pointed at Rachel and drew a circle with her finger. “Miss Rachel Marin. Your last name is Marin, right?”
“That’s right.”
“How’d you settle on Marin?”
“None of your business,” Rachel said.
“I’d love to hear that story. But we don’t need to get into it now. You changed your hair, changed your look, but I recognized you the moment I saw you on that TV. I don’t forget a face. Especially after what we’ve been through.”
“You tried to murder someone. I stopped you.”
“You sure did,” Evie said. “And I wonder where Stanford Royce is these days. You have any idea where he might be, Blondie?”